


Le Roman de Priamus

by Reynier



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Multi, i dont even know how to tag this uhhh read and find out ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24527908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier
Summary: Priamus betrays Rome, and life goes on.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 9
Collections: Arthurian_Server_Squad





	1. How Priamus Came to Serve King Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> we found a tristan romance for $250 and ev said "250 dollars? for TRISTAN? only priamus is worth that" so uh. here's the priamus romance that we all deserve. please lemme know what you think lmao

A multitude of stories told  
Concern the knights of Arthur bold  
Who journeyed forth to seek the Grail  
Despite that they were doomed to fail;  
Hied off to fight the Saxons rough  
(Although the fight was very tough),  
And vanquished them at Badon Hill,  
And there they practiced deadly skill,  
Like Beowulf of ancient lay  
They vowed the Saxon hordes to slay.  
But enemies were manifold  
Some new, and some were very old,  
Like noble Rome on Tigris’ banks,  
Whose violet-bearing martial ranks  
From every land did sally forth  
For Lucius, king, who knew their worth,  
Would pay them silver, copper, bronze  
To fight for gods’ Olympus Mons.

The king of Alexander then  
(And all the lands from Greece’s fen  
To Egypt’s western desert lee)  
Was Priamus; you soon shall see  
How all the world could search itself  
But none would better him in wealth  
Or kindly-hearted chivalry  
In Arthur’s proud fraternity  
That sat at oaken table round.   
Where Egypt’s king walked on the ground,  
There flowers followed as he stepped  
And saplings sprouted where he leapt  
(Because he treasured pretty things  
And paid quite well for gardening). 

When Lucius sent out Caesar’s call  
To arms, on Alexander’s mall  
His armies stretched their glinting greaves,  
And Priamus, in laurel leaves,  
Bestowed them with his martial say:  
“I bid you listen on this day  
For trouble brews on Roman shore  
Where villain rides to challenge war  
And we must help our noble lord   
Although I own I’m very bored  
At every time he starts to talk.   
But I digress-- we must not baulk  
When polishing Egyptian spears,  
If Lucius speaks, we’ll block our ears.   
Does that sound good, my men?” said he,  
Then raised his eyes to look and see  
If anyone attention paid  
To boring speeches that were made  
When staring at a missive dry.  
He did not like this Lucius guy,  
And habit held of reading words  
While only pondering the swords  
That surely in great glory would  
Beat clash by clash, and really should  
Make every conversation fun--  
King Priamus, Athena’s son,  
With fervour that was near devout,  
Was very passionate about   
The acts of bloody battle fought  
When simple men were getting got.

So off he rode his men to Rome,  
Where Arthur’s knights were far from home  
And journeyed long in search of blood  
But stalled they were by vicious flood  
And torrents, there, of brutal rain,  
Enough to drive a man insane,  
But that would be redundant with  
All Arthur’s kin and closest kith.   
The foremost of those knights of yore  
Was named Gawain, of Scottish lore,  
Who traced his matrimony line  
To Arthur’s throne, but it was fine!  
It was fine he wasn’t king,  
That wasn’t the important thing.   
He really didn’t mind at all. 

And on that day, as rain did fall,  
He promenaded on the road  
With only sword for heavy load,  
To find someone who'd take his mind  
Off boring things. Well, he would find  
That Priamus was not the bore  
That seemed the one whose clothes he wore--  
For all good Roman legionnaires  
Were forced to put on Roman airs  
And wear a blandly leather vest  
Despite what fashion said was best.

“Well, hark you now,” thought Sir Gawain,  
“Who is this man who rides in rain  
From town to town, on muddy street  
And with his Roman-sandelled feet  
Stamps step by step without a horse?  
The weather’s bad enough, but worse,  
I’m sure it is, to brave on foot.  
He risks to gather ash and soot.  
I’ll call his name, and see if he  
Would like to nicely spar with me,  
For there is nothing else to do  
In Italy, with Re Artù.”

It must be pointed out right now  
That neither one was like to bow  
Before an unknown fighting man;  
A peasant innocently can  
Let pass the captain on the lane  
But to a knight, this is a stain  
On honour, clutched like mother-pearl.  
And so quicksilver did unfurl  
And swords were drawn to fight a fight  
That doubtless would be on ‘til night.  
“I challenge thee!” spoke bold Gawain  
And Priamus (who thought the rain  
Was very dreary, and was prone  
To getting lonely on his own)  
Was glad to draw his sword in turn.   
They crossed their blades and sparks did fly,  
And it was likely one would die,  
For such was all the skill they knew  
And of their thoughts disguised all clue.  
But where a simple man would fail,  
These two will tell a different tale,  
And each their wits about them held  
So neither one was quickly felled.   
A slam! A bang! A racket loud  
Stretched out on fields of Rome so proud.  
But there was no one out to hear  
Because the weather brought such fear.

At last the iron blows turned slow.  
Gawain brought noble hero low,  
And as he crouched with sword to throat,  
King Priamus, in words ill-rote,  
Cried out “By gods! I yield, I yield,  
But on the beauty of your shield,  
I beg of you your name to know.  
No man has ever beat me so.   
You cannot be just any man--  
For many soldiers from me ran  
Each time I stepped on battle moor.  
With you there must be much in store.”

“I’m nobody at all, good sir,  
Of that you can be very sure.  
I have no name, I have no lands,  
I travel with King Arthur’s bands  
As serving-man, and little else.  
Allegiance to the king of Celts  
Is all I own and all I owe.”

King Priamus cried “Surely no!  
Although I say that peasants too  
Are valiant, and strong, and true,  
The socio-economic ties  
That bind a man to fields of size  
Prevent him from perfecting war.  
This strikes me sharp and hurts me sore,  
But still I must your name decry  
And say that verily you lie,  
For serfs would not have all the time  
To practice art like yours or mine.  
You’re being very mean to me  
When you say you’re nobody.”

“Alright, alright,” laughed Sir Gawain,  
“I take your point, I own my blame.  
I am the king of Lothian  
And all the lands in Norway run  
Under my hand, under my crown.  
So servant--” He joked-- “bow you down.”

“A-ha,” said Priamus, the king,  
“You’ve just neglected one small thing.  
I rule more lands than you by far  
From Greece to every distant star  
Is mine in hand; my vavasseurs  
Are multitude, my noble purse  
Is richer than all Egypt’s wheat--  
And I make sure my people eat,  
Because I practice what I preach,  
And got some friends to taxes teach.  
I will admit I have a fault   
(So take me with a grain of salt),  
For everything I hold today,  
I own it all by Lucius’ sway.  
This is no good, I say, no good!  
I hate him like no vassal should,  
Because he’s boring and a boor.”

Gawain grinned wide, said “Well, no more  
Shall you to Lucius hence kowtow  
For Arthur only wants a bow,  
And I only request a kneel  
If you wish here to turn your heel.”

“I’ll kneel,” said Priamus, quite fast,  
Who never thought kingship would last  
And if the jig was up right there,  
And Roman robes were not for wear,  
Then that was fine! He did not know  
That kneeling on the ground below  
Another knight was how a knight  
Became a knight, and that was right;  
A sword against his cheek did press,  
He begged a kiss-- JK-- unless?  
And then King Priamus departs  
Sir Priamus then from here starts,  
A knight of Arthur’s Table Round.  
And if events upon the ground  
Proceeded then, I will not say,  
For that is not this poet’s way.


	2. How Priamus Met Sir Lancelot

When Priamus had stayed a year  
At Arthur’s court, he came to fear  
That any of his enemies  
Might now the sudden option seize  
To take advance and slay him there.  
Though he affected not to care,  
In fact he highly prized his life--  
Sir Priamus avoided strife  
And was not prone to taking risks  
That might deprive him of his bliss. 

He had acquired many foes,  
Because when any monarch goes  
To foreign lands to practice war,  
He must acknowledge that, therefore,  
Occasion might arise to hate  
The man who sows a bloody fate.  
This never did disturb him much,  
Because he practiced life with such  
A graceful magnanimity.  
But now he feared for more than he,  
For friends he had! They numbered ten:  
Among them Sir Gawain; and then  
Sir Galahad, the chaste and sweet;  
Sir Tristan of the search for feet;  
The Lady Iseult, his long love,  
Though not avowed to God above;  
Lynette and Gareth, married well,  
As any courtly scribe can tell;  
Palomides; and Aggravaine;  
Sir Dinadan; and last Yvain.

There was one name he often heard  
Be whispered like a sacred word  
Throughout the halls of Camelot:  
And this was good Sir Lancelot.  
In all the time Sir Priamus  
Had been at court, he did not fuss  
About the man whose glutted fame  
Extended from that holy name.  
This was not from a disrespect,  
But rather that the knight elect  
Had left Carlisle a year before  
And journeyed out on some dark chore.  
But then one day he did return,  
And Camelot, in gay sojourn,  
Set out to hold a tournament;  
There was no better sacrament  
To welcome back an errant knight.  
I will not here describe the fight,  
The clashing of the bannered blades,  
The way the entrails rained in spades  
On Carlisle’s fair and grassy glen.

But here the lion in his den  
(A metaphor, I must profess;  
No lion lurks, no lioness)  
Began to raise symbolic head  
And see the one he wanted dead.  
This target of the villain’s tract  
Was not Sir Priamus, in fact,  
But rather noble Sir Gawain,  
Who took a break upon a lane  
To wander through the forest green.  
But as it proved, he soon was seen  
And captured there, amid the wood,  
Bound up in coarse and hoary hood  
And taken to a far-off land  
Where Arthur’s flag did never stand.

Our hero was the only one--  
He thought-- to see what had begun,  
And so he saddled up his horse  
And ventured on courageous corse  
To find the perpetrator there,  
Who had been brutal and unfair.  
But as it happened he was not  
The only one to scheme and plot  
To thus retrieve his stolen friend:  
The Lord above saw fit to send  
Another on that thankless task,  
A quiet man who bore a mask  
And slipped away before the end  
Of Arthur’s noble tournament.   
But Priamus did not know this,  
He worried much was thus amiss  
When suddenly he heard a crack,  
A snapping noise, a sudden thwack,  
As if of branches breaking ‘neath  
A horse’s hooves on heady heath.

Because he was a cunning man,  
And cunning blood in red veins ran,  
Sir Priamus dismounted then,  
By thicket thick and thorny fen,  
And crouched amid the breezy brush  
(Although he was in quite a rush  
To find his dear departed friend   
Before his very mortal end).  
Thus, trying to not even breathe,  
Or rustle any russet leaves,  
He waited for the other knight  
So as to give him quite a fright.  
When horse hooves sounded on the ground,  
Sir Priamus looked all around,   
Then boldly jumped from hiding place  
To wave his sword in dark-masked face.  
“Avast!” he cried, because it was  
A word he’d always liked the buzz  
Of, when a pirate screamed it at  
Him in the midst of bloody spat.   
“Avast,” he said again, in case  
The other man forgot his place,  
“I beg you tell me now your name,  
Or I will give you different fame  
Than mayhaps had you here before.  
I’ll really go to town with gore.”

“Please don’t, sir,” said the man, “it’s true  
That I did stalk and follow you.  
I saw you leave the tournament   
To follow clues the good Lord sent  
Of where they’ve taken Sir Gawain.   
But do not think me proud or vain  
If I assure you that no man  
Can brandish arms as well I can.”

“You’re sounding very arrogant,”   
Said Priamus, avasts all spent,  
“And I dislike you, thus,” he said.  
The other man just turned his head  
And made to ride on down that road.  
But Priamus behind him rode  
And waved his arms to catch his eye.  
“You asshole!” he did loudly cry,  
“O! Whomst the fuck are you, you dick?”  
But then he heard a nasty click;  
A sword with crimson-pommelled grip  
Was loosed in scabbard; like a whip  
It slithered from its shallow grave.  
To Priamus, it quickly gave  
Enough concern to draw his own--  
Defender, once, of Egypt’s throne,  
But now of distant Britain’s keep,  
Which gave the Saxons cause to weep.

“Sir, I’d advise you practice peace,  
Or God will run your mortal lease,  
For if my name you want to know,  
It’s Lancelot.” Said our man: “Oh.”  
Then Lancelot pulled off the veil  
And eyes that never found the Grail  
Looked out from under darkened hair  
That framed a face with looks to spare.  
But Priamus was not disposed   
To very much admire those  
Who in their quiet natured preached  
Their power or their martial reach,  
And so his looks did not abet  
The situation as of yet.

But Priamus was also not   
The sort of man who, wanton, fought  
When there was nothing there to gain.  
And so he smiled and grabbed his reins,  
And mounted on his piebald mare.  
He said: “Sir Lance, this quest I’ll share  
With you if one thing you do vow.   
I do demand you promise now  
That when we reach our dear lost friend,  
You will not try to be my end.   
I own our meeting was not grand,  
But I on etiquette will stand.  
So speak it plain-- what do you say?”

Sir Lancelot said: “Well, okay,  
I guess that sounds alright. That’s fine.  
You ride in front. I’ll stay behind.”  
Sir Priamus did not much like  
This choice, which opened him to strikes  
At any place upon his back.   
But in the end, alas, alack,  
Sir Lancelot was quite the knight;  
He’d quickly win at any fight.

When they did several hours ride,  
Sir Priamus was bored inside,  
And in attempt to conversate,  
Gave one sad cough, quite filled with hate.   
Sir Lancelot said, “Oh. Oh, dear.  
I’ve read of colic, and I fear,  
You may be sick with horse disease,  
So stay quite back from me, sir, please.”

“Excuse me?” cried Sir Priamus,  
“I don’t see why you make a fuss  
When nothing you have said today  
Has helped us out in any way.  
I’d like to broach some common talk  
But awkward silence haunts our walk.  
So fuck you, sir, you slut,” he said.

Sir Lancelot was turning red.  
He did not like when people yelled,  
And that was why he often felled  
Those who attacked him with their words.   
But from Gawain he’d briefly heard  
Of Priamus, and so his sword  
Stayed safely in its sheathing ward   
And did not venture to repel  
Attacks of Social Anxious Hell.

They rode in silence once again,  
But all the tension ‘tween the men  
Became a danger to their health,  
So they felt badly in themselves.  
Indeed the ride was such a strain  
That both felt quite a heavy pain  
Upon their heart, upon their brow.   
They topple from their saddles now  
And fall slumped over each horse head  
Until they both are lying dead.


	3. How Priamus and Sir Lancelot Were Saved, and How In Turn They Rescued Sir Gawain from the Clutches of the Jesting Beast

Our hero and his erstwhile friend  
Lay very dead: this was the end  
Of all adventures of his fame--  
Or would have been, had not the name  
Of Morgan traced the bitter breeze  
That whispered wind and tufted trees.  
The Lady Morgan was the queen   
Of Rheged, often distant-seen  
By wanderers and errant knights  
On magic roads, on magic nights.  
But visits were not welcomed there,  
And so the Lady Morgan fair  
Kept watchful eye upon the land  
So no one could escape her hand  
That needed help. And one such scene  
Was that where Priamus had been.  
It must be clarified right now   
That Morgan did not feign to bow  
Before the might of Arthur’s throne;  
She did not love those lying prone  
Upon the road. But duties must,  
And when her nephew, in his lust,  
Made enemies of more than one  
Spurned husband when his work was done,  
Then Morgan had a task to do.   
She loathed her family, it’s true,  
But some were not as bad by far;  
Gawain of Orkney cleared the bar. 

She teleported to the road  
Where knights had lost their soul-bound load,  
And wandered to and fro a bit,  
Then soundly gave them both a hit  
Upon the breast. There was a clank,  
A nasty noise; and then a rank   
And salty stench of rotted fish  
(For that was in the magic dish  
That Morgan used to resurrect)  
She spoke: “I want you both to now reflect  
Upon the animosity   
That threatened your mortality.   
Sir Lancelot, when you don’t take  
Your water bottle labelled “Lake,”  
To pour over your head for peace,  
You must take special care to cease  
The palpitations in your heart.  
It’s better, really, not to start.   
Your mother would be very sad  
If you just died by being mad.

“He started it,” said Lancelot,  
“He coughed at me, and glared a lot.”  
Said Priamus: “That isn’t true!  
I tried much harder than did you!  
I like to be a friendly man,  
And make good allies, if I can;  
It’s not my fault if you’re a bitch.  
You’re better dead in this here ditch.”

“Calm down,” said Morgan, “please calm down.  
Put on a smile, erase that frown.   
Not you, Sir Lancelot,” she said,  
When the expression he gave said   
That very clearly he did not   
Have any cause to smile a lot.  
“So here’s the situation, lads,  
You know Gawain’s an awful cad,  
And I believe he’s transgressed here  
Against a monster many fear.”

“Oh, not again,” moaned Lancelot.  
(The last time, all of Camelot  
Had found itself in much uproar  
Because of why Gawain was sore.)

“Uh, not like that,” said Morgan then,  
“I mean, well, not with other men.  
It’s with the wife of monstrous beast;  
Although it told its wife to cease  
Betraying it in marriage bed,  
The wife has evidently said  
‘I shan’t,’ and so the evil snake  
Decided to some action take  
Against the man who cucked him so.   
And now you both must quickly go  
To find your friend and bring him back,  
Or Arthur will you surely sack.”

“King Arthur wouldn’t fire me,”  
Said Lancelot, quite moodily,  
“He’d fire Priamus, I’m sure,  
But me he likes a whole lot more.”  
“Oh, screw yourself,” hissed Priamus,  
“I’ll get him back with little fuss,  
So just you wait, yes, just you see  
For you’ll have cause to envy me.”

Said Morgan, “Well, I’m leaving now.  
But just you mark, I don’t see how  
You two will win at anything  
When you waste time with arguing.  
But best of luck, I guess,” said she,  
“I’ll leave you now to chivalry.”

So they rode on, together but  
With conversation in a rut,  
For neither one knew what to say  
When they had died that evil day.   
Eventually then they came   
To secret hills devoid of fame  
Where all knights stopped, where all love ceased:  
Here dwelt the evil Jesting Beast.   
Spoke Lancelot: “What do we do?  
I’ve no more knowledge here than you.  
What is this beast we seek in bog  
A snake? A wolf? Some kind of hog?  
It must be villainous for sure  
To stray so far from heady moor.”

Said Priamus, “You’re from a lake,  
I would not callous jibing take  
Of that which calls this place its home.   
There’s stranger land on far French loam.”  
Together they did venture in  
And search for any sign of sin  
Or cardinal depravity  
In any swamp locality  
(The signs by which a man could tell  
That Sir Gawain was feeling well).  
But when they there could nothing find,  
They almost left to homeward wind.

Then suddenly from swampish tree  
There burst a creature, strange to see  
With scaly skin upon its back  
And short squat legs, in grey and black,  
Its eyes were narrow and its claws  
Sat perched on pale reptilian paws.   
Its long white teeth, its lack of ears  
Aligned with both their wildest fears,  
For neither could deny the sight  
That was an alligator’s might!

“Oh, fuck!” screamed good Sir Priamus,  
“I don’t know what this is, it must  
Be some weird kind of crocodile  
(They had those by the desert Nile).  
I hate it, yes, I hate it dear,  
I hate its strange and toothy leer.”  
Sir Lancelot did not respond,  
Because the nicely-watered pond  
Reminded him of native France.

The Jesting Beast began to dance  
Upon the bank towards them there.  
Sir Priamus thought it unfair  
Gawain had practiced zest for life  
With such a monstrous creature’s wife,   
But then before their very eyes,   
The Jesting Beast did change in size,  
Until before them then there stood  
A normal man in cape and hood.   
“I am Sir Chuckles of the Bog,”  
He said. “I am no wolf, I am no hog,  
I am not even quite a snake,  
For during day, this form I take  
Until the moon is shining bright--  
An alligator then by night.”

Sir Priamus raised up his spear,  
Said, “I don’t care, just listen here--  
You’ve taken noble Sir Gawain  
And we two knights together aim  
To now retrieve him. Where is he?”  
Cried Chuckles, “What of you and me?  
Yes, what of our good knightly fight,  
That surely now will last til night?  
I will not tell you where he is  
Until you rectify all this.”  
Said Priamus, “Please, let’s not spar,  
You’re stronger than just us by far,  
For you have skills like lizard bold;  
My friend and I are not that mold.”

“I’m not your friend,” said Lancelot,  
“And if a fight was truly fought,  
Then I think I could vanquish him.”  
But matters did not thusly spin,  
For suddenly a voice cried out:  
“Come rescue me, I’m here, you lout!”  
They hastened to a knobbly tree,  
With Chuckles wandering aimlessly   
Behind them, yelling for a fight.  
But neither of the questing knights  
Did spare a single thought for this.   
For there they found the friend they missed,  
Where he was tied upon a hill  
Because he never would lie still. 

“Hey, that’s my captive,” cried the beast,  
But neither of the errants ceased  
To graciously untie Gawain.   
When he was free to speak again  
He levelled on the beast a stare  
And said: “It really isn’t fair  
Of you to so restrict your wife,  
She’s free to go and live her life  
However she decides to do.   
And now we’re three instead of two,  
And three will surely beat you well,  
But all I want is you to tell   
Me that from here on out, you will  
Let your dear wife cheat to her fill.  
A woman forced to marry he  
Who never would be picked by she  
Cannot be blamed for being false.   
So let her dance her wanton waltz.  
Besides, Sir Chuckles, my good knight,  
You tend to alligate at night.”

Sir Chuckles, rueful, bashful, swore  
He would be better than before,  
And all three knights then rode away--  
\--To better things? Well, who can say?


	4. How Priamus Made More Friends

When Priamus had left old Rome;  
In Britain found a better home,  
And there found friends aplenty too,  
He made a vow to honour true:  
To never focus on the king  
Who ran this whole Round Table thing.  
He’d had his fill of kings by now,  
And never wanted more to bow  
Before the might of Christian throne. 

Philosophizing on his own,  
He reasoned that a king is just  
A vehicle for legal trust,  
And it is his advisors who  
Make all the policy come true.   
So who were the advisors here?  
He knew Gawain and Bedivere  
Were heir and marshall for the king,  
And that the governmental ring  
Comprised of Lancelot and Kay,  
And others also, I should say.   
Beyond this he had never looked,  
For all his time was nicely booked  
With matters non-political  
Nor psychoanalytical.  
He knew Gawain’s dear uncle was  
Named Artie, or Artuturus,  
Or something like that type of name,  
And furthermore, he knew the claim  
Of Britain lay with Arthur, king.  
But he did not connect these things.  
He thus ignored his royal boss,  
And did not think it much a loss.

But one day as he strolled along  
The ramparts, filled with birdie-song  
And buzzing of a billion bees  
That tracked the tips of trusty trees,  
He spied a lady walking there  
With noble features passing fair.  
He spoke then: “Hark! How bright the day  
When you should promenade my way!  
I do not know your name, my friend,  
Let’s put our strangeness to an end.  
I’m Priamus, I’m always down  
To make a friend or two in town.”

The lady gave him quite the look;  
He shivered there; the ramparts shook,  
And then she smiled quite prettily  
And said: “Dear rose of chivalry,  
I’ll secrets tell, to you from me,  
I like the way you speak with ease,  
For most men, seeing me, just freeze,  
Or ask me for my favour-fond  
(Or run away to old French pond  
Because they’re so embarrassed by  
Their stammering they start to cry).   
I much prefer your manner brave,  
Although I warn you that no knave  
Will win my safely-guarded heart--  
So in that manner, please don’t start.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said he,  
Who often talked quite flirtily  
When he just wanted to befriend  
Or find someone to gayly spend  
An hour with in casual chat.  
“I’m sorry that it seemed like that.   
My meaning, rather, is to say,  
I’m glad to meet a friend today!”

She quirked an eyebrow at him there,  
Which only made her face more fair,  
And said: “Am I your friend, then, sir?  
You really want to be quite sure,  
For friends of mine are not the sort  
To think of life as one big sport.   
If friendship is your ending goal,  
I’ll gladly grant it, but the role  
Brings hordes of dangers, and the threat  
To life and limb is quite a vet   
For careless amiability.  
But if you have agility,  
Or saxe-knives, or a pointy sword,  
And give to me your solemn word  
That you shall not be treacherous,  
I’ll gladly say Sir Priamus  
Is ranking as a trusty peer  
Among the friends of Guinevere.”

“That’s great!” said Priamus, who did  
Not know that queenly friendship bid  
As quite a high commodity.  
In this he was an oddity,  
And Guinevere gave him a look  
That he with aimless smiling took  
To mean she liked his side hair part.   
But in content ambivalence  
They wandered on the battlements  
And chatted for a pleasant while  
Of this and that, and friendly style.

At court there also was a child  
Who was not meek and was not mild,  
For he was certes the best knight there,  
Of flashing sword and close-cropped hair.   
His name was good Sir Galahad,  
And Priamus, in passing had  
Discussed with him all sorts of things:  
Religion, parents, gossip, kings.  
For Galahad content was not,  
With life, with father, Camelot,  
He held a lot of questions in   
The heart that extirpated sin. 

When Priamus had first arrived,  
He’d acclimated and he’d thrived,  
But Galahad had different luck.  
He seemed in unhappy and was stuck  
In circles most traditional.  
For Priamus, provisional  
Contents were all the world could give,  
And he elected thus to live  
Each day to maximize his fun.  
But to Sir Lancelot’s poor son  
This method did not bring much bliss,  
So happiness was hit or miss,  
And this made Priamus quite sad.  
His childhood had not been as bad  
As all the evidence did give  
It was for Galahad to live.

But Priamus was not a man  
To let injustices command,  
And so December of that year--  
As Christmas day drew ever near--  
He schemed and plotted, lurked and planned  
To make the birthday be as grand  
As he thought Galahad deserved  
(He did not know that Christmas day  
Was not just Galahad’s, for they   
Had never bothered to inform  
Him that the Christian Lord was born  
On that fair day as well). So he  
Had thought it would be good to see  
If all the nobles, upper brass,  
For once would come to Chritian mass.

Sir Priamus was not concerned  
With why they mortal sinning spurned  
To sit by row and pray for Christ,  
So he was not polite or nice  
Extorting them to gather there.  
Indeed he got Gawain to share  
In forcing them with subtle threats,  
Like killing all their little pets,  
If they did not that morning come  
To mass to pray in full-on sum  
(They would not ever hurt a dog  
Or cat or horse or even hog,  
But people feared them nonetheless,  
From Caledon to Listenesse).

So in a turn of new events  
Unusual, they did commence  
The mass that day with dozen score  
Of knights, and many ladies more,  
Who’d come by call of Guinevere  
Whom they did logically fear.   
Sir Galahad felt much surprise  
When every person there did rise  
To say their prayers and pledge their souls,  
Then touch the holy water bowls  
With rusty sensibility.   
But lack of church ability   
Did not the force alleviate  
Of trying to ameliorate   
Their many heavy mortal sins.   
Sir Galahad beheld his kin  
And all the friends who’d gathered there  
And, crying, said: “Not tears, I swear,  
I wouldn’t cry just over mass,  
This water in my eyes will pass.”  
But this was clearly just a lie,  
For Galahad began to cry:  
The Bishop Baldwin had to pause  
And wait upon this noble cause.  
Sir Priamus gave him a hug,  
Upon his clenching fists did tug,  
And said: “Come on, Sir Galahad--  
Did this assembly make you sad?  
I thought it would be something bright  
To celebrate your birthday right.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Galahad,  
“The crying’s good, it isn’t bad.  
I think I needed now to cry.  
And this is quite the reason why:  
I’ve never had a friend to make  
My awful kin their sermons take.  
It makes me very happy, sir.  
You are a real one, that’s for sure.”

“Aw, that’s real nice,” said our good knight,  
“I’m glad I planned your birthday right.  
Sir Galahad, you little shit,  
I’m very fond of all your wit,  
And you deserve your special day.  
And if you spend it all to pray,  
Then you have my supporting vote.”

The Bishop Baldwin cleared his throat,  
And said: “May we continue now, good knight?”  
In such a tone as begged a fight.   
But this was not the day to fuss  
All over good Sir Priamus,  
So he just smiled and took his place  
With happiness writ on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give me your thoughts on this wild adventure lmao


End file.
